


Emptied

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bladder Control, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Public Humiliation, Ramsay is his own warning, Watersports, messed up shit in here, past genital mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A learning lesson for the Boys turns into a learning lesson for Reek as well.</p>
<p>A semi-sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3141056">Filled</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emptied

**Author's Note:**

> I trust that everyone here knows what to expect from a Thramsay fic. I don't want anyone saying, "Why wasn't I warned? Good God, my soul will never feel clean again." So...yeah. 
> 
> But if your soul's already dirty, feel free to continue.

“Were your ears ringing, Reek? We were just talking about you.”

The dull little creature froze at the doorway like a startled deer, eyes going wide. One would think he’d learn by now, but it was always so easy to catch him off guard.

“Yes…m’lord?”

Ramsay frowned. Reek had recently taken to speaking like a commoner. It fit his appearance, but Ramsay didn’t remember instructing him to do it. And his appearance… It had taken several weeks to undo the damage his lord father had wrought with his bath. As if Reek were his to bathe. In fact, hadn’t Reek started slurring his speech soon after that bath?

Ramsay shook the troubling thought off and patted his knee, summoning Reek like a dog. Reek mistook this as a demand to hurry up with the wine and flung himself across the room, sloshing the pitcher as he hobbled. Some of the Boys chuckled, and Myranda smirked.

“Clumsier today than usual, eh, Reek?”

“I…uh, sorry, m’lord…”

He began filling Ramsay’s glass, though his shaking hands ensured more got on the table than in the cup.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he repeated with a defeated moan. “I’ll…fetch a mop.”

He turned to go, but Ramsay’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. He pulled the little creature back, taking the pitcher with his free hand. He set that on the table and pulled Reek into his lap, enjoying the startled squeak.

“I understand, pet,” he murmured as he ran a gloved hand through that hair, which was just now beginning to take on the ratty, matted look it needed. A couple nights of sleeping in the kennels had worked wonders to undo his father’s damage. “You’ve been working quite hard. Why don’t you sit and have a drink with us?”

“M’lord, I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense.” Ramsay lifted his cup and thrust it into Reek’s shaking hands, holding them for a moment to make sure it didn’t spill. “I insist.”

Reek hesitated, no doubt expecting a trick. He was smart to expect a trick, of course. Ramsay hated it when his pet tried to be smart. In the end, though, he lifted the cup of his own volition and downed half of it in one gulp.

Ramsay smiled indulgently and pressed the fragile face against his chest. Reek leaned in and took another large gulp. The little idiot was trying to get himself drunk.

“Easy.” Ramsay pried the empty glass from unresisting hands, then refilled it to the brim and passed it back. “There’s plenty.”

Reek settled in like a sleepy child as its mother’s breast, and conversation continued around the table. Nobody was stupid enough to complain about the foul creature’s presence, though Ramsay could see Damon wrinkling his nose in distaste and Sour Alyn conspicuously shielding his mouth with his hand. Directly across the table, he caught Myranda’s eyes, shiny with mischief. She was a woman after his own heart. If she’d been a man, she would have easily fit in with his Boys. But then again, if she were a man, she might lose that streak of feminine cruelty he admired so much. At any rate, he anticipated keeping her around longer than his Boys. She was _his_ find, _his_ creation, not a commissioned friend sent by his lord father to keep an eye on him. Uniquely _his_. Just like Reek.

Reek was halfway through his third glass when he began to squirm in Ramsay’s lap. The wine was working through his scrawny body even faster than Ramsay could have hoped. Which was good, because he didn’t know how much more he could take of Yellow Dick complaining about the peasant girl he’d fucked last night.

“What were we talking about earlier?” Ramsay began casually, interrupting Yellow Dick’s less-than-artful description of the girl’s lackluster tits. “Before Reek got here? Skinner, you had a question for our little Reek, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Skinner set his own wine aside, looking a bit relieved to change the subject as well. “He ain’t got no dick, right?”

“Of course he doesn’t have a dick,” Damon spat. “You were there when we took it off, remember?”

Reek shuddered against Ramsay’s frame.

“I just meant, how’s he piss?”

“Good question.” Ramsay stroked Reek’s hair, feeling the tremors in his body. This little creature was like a fine-tuned instrument he could play again and again. “How does a man piss without a dick, Reek?”

“Reek is no man,” he protested.

“Well, then, how does _no man_ piss?”

Reek shook his head.

Ramsay gripped Reek’s hair and pulled his head back, not as roughly as he could have but with the threat of more force to come. “Skinner asked you a question, sweetling. It’s very impolite not to answer.” He knew just the amount of warning he needed to put behind his words to get Reek nodding, alert and ready to obey.

He swallowed thickly. “I…”

“ _Look_ at them when you answer.”

His head turned to face the Boys, but his eyes remained locked on the ground. “I…I…”

“You…what, Reek?”

“I have to…” His hands trembled, and he set the cup down, crossing his legs in obvious discomfort. He eyed the pitcher with new understanding, having finally divined the true purpose of Ramsay’s generosity.

“If you’re having trouble with words, sweetling, maybe you could show us instead, hmm?”

Reek’s eyes riveted to Ramsay’s face, horrified.

Ramsay reached between Reek’s legs and cupped the empty place there. “You’ve had plenty of wine. I’m sure you must need to go. Let’s make a learning experience of it, shall we?”

“M’lord, please…”

Ramsay pushed Reek to his feet. “Go on, then. Make sure everyone can see.”

Reek wanted to protest, to throw himself on the floor and beg for mercy. Ramsay could see it shining in his eyes. But like a good dog, he kept quiet and went where his master bid, shuffling on mangled feet to the center floor. Chairs scraped as the Boys positioned themselves for the show, some eager for a bit of entertainment, others genuinely, morbidly curious.

Reek just stood there, eyes trained on the ground, shoulders hunched. He flinched when Ramsay slapped his hand on the table. “Do you usually piss with your pants up?”

“No, m’lord.” His jittery hands went for the bit of rope that kept his breeches up. With fumbling fingers, he undid the knot. The pants slid off his skinny hips to pool on the floor. Blushing—more color that he’d had in his face in a long time—he yanked the hem of his baggy shirt down to conceal himself.

“Come now, Reek. It’s nothing everyone in the room hasn’t already seen. Or do you need me to cut the shirt off your back for you?”

Reek sobbed and pulled the shirt up and over his head. He let that join the pants on the floor and stood with his hands at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching with the force it took to not cover himself.

Ramsay admired his handiwork. Not just the gash between Reek’s legs, but the pink of healing skin, the purple and yellow of healing bruises. Burns, cuts, whip marks—whether from his own hands or those of his Boys, they were all beautiful.

He heard Myranda titter, and Reek bit on his lip as tears rolled down his cheek. There was nothing quite so cutting as a woman’s mocking laughter.

“Sorry, m’lord,” she said. “I haven’t seen it in a while. I’d thought maybe his hair had gone white down there as well.”

Reek buried his face in his hands.

“None of that, Reek. We all want to see your pretty face.”

The Boys laughed, but as Reek lowered his hands, Ramsay thought about how it _was_ a pretty face. Not comely, certainly, like a woman’s or even like Theon Greyjoy’s, but pretty as it contorted in agony and unbearable shame. Maybe he was the only one who could really appreciate it.

“Give us a good show. Spread your legs apart so we can see.”

Reek shook his head. “Please, m’lord…”

“Please?” Ramsay stood, pushing the chair back. “You know how I feel about that word, so I’m left to assume you’re asking for help.” He stomped up to Reek, who cowered back before he could even stop himself. He cried out when Ramsay reached out for him. “How silly of me to forget. You don’t piss standing up anymore, do you? Only men stand. You squat down, like a woman. Isn’t that right?”

His eyes were large and luminous with tears. “Yes…m’lord.”

Ramsay put a hand on Reek’s head and pushed him down to his knees. “No one will be able to see you that way. Why don’t you get on your back?”

Reek went easily down to the ground, laying himself out flat on his back. Without even being asked, he spread his arms and legs wide, almost in an unconscious imitation of the Bolton family crest, giving everyone at the table an intimate look at his ruined form. He looked like a child’s doll, featureless and with an obvious seam running between his legs and up towards his belly. Laid out like that, it was easier to see his tiny chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths.

“Well…” Ramsay prompted. “You had quite a bit of wine, Reek. I imagine you must need to piss something awful.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Go on, then.”

Several moments passed by. Reek continued to breathe heavily.

“What’s the matter? Too tense?”

“M’lord, I—”

“I can see your belly’s all bloated and swollen with wine from here. It must be taking an extraordinary effort to keep it in. And you with your weak leg muscles.” He raised his boot and brought it down gently on Reek’s stomach. He didn’t even need to press all that hard before Reek gave a small cry and his bladder released.

It started as a thin trickle, like he was still trying to fight it but was unable. His body had always been a slave to its weaker needs, though, long before Ramsay even made him into the creature he was now. He must have realized the inevitability of it, because the stream gradually began to pick up, gushing from the hole Ramsay had so carefully kept open after the “alterations” had been made. There was no force behind it, and yet the sound of it hitting the stones was loud enough to fill the room.

The Boys were absolutely silent.

The piss was thick and yellow and foul, and Reek turned his head to the side and sobbed as it began to pool around him. If Ramsay offered to kill him now, he’d probably accept eagerly. Not that Ramsay would offer.

The stream continued with no sign of stopping. Ramsay counted off the seconds.

“I didn’t think his body was big enough to hold that much,” someone commented.

The others laughed and Reek continued to sob.

Ramsay lifted his boot as Reek finished, not wanting to soil his shoes in the spreading puddle. Reek was soaked, the liquid running into the grout of the flagstones and making its way under his prone body. But he was resigned to it and made absolutely no move to sit or stand, not even when Ramsay returned to his chair.

The stream eventually died away, with just a few more drops left dribbling out. Only then did Reek say, “I’m done, m’lord.”

Ramsay hadn’t asked him to talk, but the look of shameful admission on his pet’s face was enough to forgive it this one time.

He turned back to his Boys. “Did that answer your question, Skinner?”

Skinner shrugged. “Put me off my appetite for a while.”

“Did you hear that, Reek? You’ve made my men sick with your wanton display.”

“Forgive me, m’lord.” The little creature may be dull, but he was learning to accept his position. No arguing, no protesting that his lord master has asked him to do this in the first place. Just total submission.

A great swell of fondness gripped Ramsay’s heart then, something close to affection or pride.

“Get up and put your clothes back on. Nobody wants to see your scrawny body.”                           

Reek sat up and crawled on his knees to his clothes. His skin was wet and sticky, and the dirty cloth clung to him as he fumbled his way back into his rags. He cast a look at the puddle he’d left behind and then quickly hung his head.

“Go on,” Ramsay instructed. “Get a mop. Clean it up. Then you can go back to the kennels. You have the rest of the night off.”

Reek stood, and for a second it seemed his legs would not hold him. Ramsay fought the urge to run and scoop him up, to feel and smell the filth on the creature’s body as he carried him in his arms up to his bedchambers. To make him even filthier, so that he’d never even _think_ about Roose Bolton or Barbrey Dustin or any of the other pigs who wanted to take him away from his master ever again.

But Reek found his footing, almost a pity. “Thank you, m’lord,” he said, head still low, and he hobbled off to do as he was bid.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
